The End of Somniferous Days
by thedorkygirl
Summary: Will's got people in high places watching his back, but for what reason he's not sure. [Alternate Universe before Almost Thirty Years Willfic that's almost a parody on XFiles conspiracy theories.] GIVEN UP.
1. Prologue

The End of Somniferous Days

**Author**: Keren Ziv  
**Spoilers**: Right before the S1 finale. Let's face it, I can do anything I want with the Will storyline before that. Just because I'm Little One.  
**Rating**: Aww, nothing bad. At worst, PG-13 for swearingness.  
**Summary**: What will happen to Will Tippin now that he knows about the CIA and not about SD-6? Who will be in charge of his fate? Could it be the same who are in charge of Syd's fate? ATY-AU.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own Alias

* * *

**sang-froid**, _also_ **sangfroid** sang-FRWAH, _noun_:  
Freedom from agitation or excitement of mind; coolness in trying circumstances; calmness. 

_Sang-froid_ is from the French; it literally means "cold blood" (_sang_, "blood" + _froid_, "cold").

* * *

"Is he alive?"

"Yeah. It hit his left shoulder. Nothing important was damaged and he'll regain full use of his arm within a year at the worst. Might be a little stiff until then."

"They could have killed him."

"But they didn't."

"Why?"

"I think it was a warning."

"A warning?"

"A warning for Jack Bristow, maybe, to stop dragging the little reporter through everything. Or maybe a warning for Tippin himself, to keep his nose out of what it doesn't belong in."

"A warning for Sydney, maybe, that they know who her friends are?"

"Don't ever let Bristow hear you say that. She's taking this all too personally as it is."

"I don't know how to break this to you, but it is personal."

"Just don't remind Bristow. She's playing the martyr card a little too handily these days. I expect her one day to just give it all up. And then we'll be stuck with putting her in witness protection only to watch her die when SD-6 catches up with her."

"You have such a great outlook on life. If you didn't work so hard on the Bristow Project, I'd say you were truly apathetic on whether or not Sydney died today."

"I never said I cared whether she lives. I just care whether she gets her job done first."

"What about Tippin? Do we send him into the Program?"

"Naw. He wouldn't like it and I'm sure Sydney would rebel. Let's give him a nice job in the agency. He can start out small. It'll satisfy the reporter in him, to have national secrets, and who knows? Maybe he'll actually be an asset to us one of these days."

"You're all heart."

"Thanks, but I'd rather say it's just my sang-froid."

"If you say so."

* * *

The first thing he noticed when he woke was the pain. A low throbbing in on his left side, just below his head, it felt like. Struggling to open his eyes, Will tried to discern just where, exactly, he was. Ah, there was a machine. Was he in a car shop? Had a car fallen on him? It didn't look like a car shop. It was too clean. What other place had machines but was clean?

"You're awake." Somebody was talking. Who was talking? Will managed to turn his head slightly. It felt like it weighed three times its normal weight. Maybe this man had something to do with his heavy head and the soreness under it. Had the weight of his head caused this soreness? Will tried to talk, but found he could make nothing but scratching noises. "You have a tube down your throat to help you breath. Nothing that you really need anymore, but we had some men come in more seriously wounded than yourself and we're currently short staffed. It doesn't hurt. I'd take it out, but I'm not a doctor."

The man was beginning to come into focus. He was tall, that was apparent even if he was sitting in a chair. Will tried to remember how tall he himself was but found that he couldn't. He'd been the same height for years and now the number was gone. He tried to frown, but it was too much of an effort.

"Who am I?" the man asked. Will hadn't actually been thinking that, but it was an obvious question. Maybe if his head hadn't been so heavy he would have thought of that. Was something sitting on it? Could he lift his arms to check? Will found that he couldn't. "I'm Frank Johns. I work in the United States intelligence agency. You can call me Agent Johns or Johns, but never Frank. You haven't earned that yet."

Earned the right to call this stranger by his first name? What had he said about intelligence? Was he bragging about his high IQ? Will found it hard to keep his eyes open. He was tired. Would this man go away and let him sleep? He blinked and realized he couldn't un-blink. It was so nice and warm here, and his head wasn't heavy anymore. Just a little while longer and then I'll wake up, he thought.

"Good-bye, Mr. Tippin. I will see you when you are more . . . " The voice faded into the background.


	2. Hospital Smells

**chicanery** shih-KAYN-uhr-ee; chih-, _noun_:  
**1.** The use of trickery to deceive (especially in matters of law).  
**2.** A trick or quibble.

_Chicanery_ drives from French _chicaner_, to quibble, apparently from Middle Low German _schicken_, to arrange, with the sense "to arrange to one's own advantage."

* * *

"How'd it go?"

"Boring. Predictable. Nothing happened except at first, and even that was just a short little spurt of activity that wasn't repeated."

"I wasn't talking about your social life. I was asking about your private interview with Will Tippin."

"Very funny. So was I. He was so hyped up on meds that I don't think he'll remember our little interview when he wakes up again. Which means I get to go back and play mean guy again. It's no fun when you can't inflict physical harm to the subject."

"You mean you didn't break his nose? The first time we met, you broke my nose."

"You had an ugly nose. I did you a favor."

"So what're we gonna do with him when he's officially released from the hospital? What about his job at the newspaper? He can't just drop that, can he?"

"We're putting him on the staff of a smaller newspaper that does publications once a week at most. He'll be able to do a few articles a month or so to keep the image up while working his chubby little cheeks off as a gopher for the desk jockeys, who in turn cater to the needs of the field agents."

"You're just bitter that after that time in Bosnia you had to leave the exciting life of a field agent and become one of us lamentable desk jockeys."

"Remember, boy, I sign the paycheck of the man who signs your paycheck."

"No you don't."

"It sounded good."

"Most people here don't even think your division is real."

"I'm a myth. Like the Yeti."

"Ugly enough."

"Or the X-Files."

"Am I Scully?"

"That's the reason you're in the basement in the first place. You look awful in those heels."

"David Ducovny has a cute ass, though, according to my wife. You're missing out in that department. Yours is too big."

"I'm insulted. Why don't you go pick a fight with someone your own size?"

"Just because you could pound me in the floor like an ant with your huge ass you think I'm afraid of you?"

"Something like that."

"You can really read people."

"Thanks, it's something I picked up from my years as a hostage interrogator. You learn to tell when somebody is lying to get away from the pain and when somebody is lying from the pain."

"There's a difference?"

"I'll show you one of these days. Is that your pager or mine? I don't have my glasses and I can't tell from here."

"Mine. It's Bristow."

"Time to go be a handler to a mole. Doesn't that make you proud of your country?"

"Damn right it does."

"Maybe you could get together with Agent Vaughn and reminisce about your Bristows. You could probably compare notes on who has the better one."

"I can see that now. Agent Vaughn and myself in a drunken brawl at some bar on the outskirts of town, me yelling at him, 'My double agent is better than your double agent!'"

"Hey, whatever floats your boat. See ya."

"See ya."

* * *

Waking up for the first time had been hard enough. But waking up for the second times was even harder. When he woke up the first time, there was this slow, surreal quality to it. He didn't know what would be happening and it was an experience for him to test out. Now he knew what was in store for him and the dreading of it jarred him abruptly out of the half-sleep he was enjoying into the sterile whiteness of the hospital rooms.

Oh. God. No. Please, just let the headache leave him alone and go back to whatever hell dimension it came from. And please don't let anyone ever know that he'd watched Buffy so many times that he was bringing in her lingo. It wasn't his fault that Buffy happened to be **the** Sarah Michelle Gellar.

He hated hospitals. No, strike that. He hated the smell of hospitals. And, glancing around the room and taking in its sights and smells, Will had to admit that this hospital smelled pretty hospital-like. Just like when he was kid and had gotten his appendix out. Dear God, had they gone back for his tonsils?

He swallowed. No tenderness. Was that a good sign? Would there be tenderness? Will couldn't remember; he'd never had his tonsils taken out before, after all. Maybe he should reach up and . . . ah, his shoulder hurt. Could he remember why his shoulder hurt? Being ambidextrous had its advantages, Will thought as he switched from his left to his right arm and gingerly touched his neck. Nothing.

It must be the arm for which he was in this room. That was evil. What had happened? Time to think back. Let's see . . . He was in the safe house and very hungry. Come to think of it, he was still hungry now. So he knew that he hadn't eaten. That wasn't good, because a Will Tippin who hasn't eaten is not a fun Will Tippin to be around. He was not a Lara Flynn Boyle wannabe.

Oh. Look. An IV. And yet he was still hungry. Well, the world would never cease to amaze Will, but he was hardly surprised that even though he was getting nutrients he was still hungry. Wasn't there a story in the Wizard of Oz series about how the Woozy didn't like the Professor's eight-course meal pills because he couldn't **taste** them? Well, that was Will. Give him a Big Mac over a needle in his arm any day.

Actually, no, McDonald's was like the Gap; overrated junk. He'd go to Wendy's because he liked Dave Thomas over McDonald's any day of the week. Except when he had no money and McDonald's was doing those ninety-nine cent cheeseburgers. Then he was forced into eating there.

Oh. A little woozy. Maybe he should put his arm down and try to figure out what happened after he didn't eat. Let's see, after he didn't eat he opened the door. Or, rather, right before he didn't eat he opened the door. And what had he seen? Somebody standing with a gun. Wait, somebody with a gun? Had it fired?

Oh, great. Life is just great. He'd been shot by one of Syd's crazy friends. Well, not crazy friends. Maybe he could actually say he'd been shot by one of Syd's crazy non-friends, one of her enemies. In any way, Will was wishing at that moment that he'd never investigated Danny's murder.

No, strike that. He would never wish not to know why Danny would died. Will knew that just knowing the reasons behind Danny's death was important to him. Why was it? He wasn't certain. He was too tired. He sighed loudly, which caused his head to buzz in a not-all-that-unpleasant fashion. He decided that lack of oxygen was fun in small bursts.

"I was wondering when you were going to awake." The voice was vaguely familiar and oddly spine-tingling to listen to. It was exactly how Will envisioned horror writer Stephen King to sound until he saw Stephen King on a TV interview. That ruined it. Stephen King did not sound like Stephen King. But this guy did.

"Yeah, well, I'm a heavy sleeper," Will said. To his surprise, his throat sounded rough and overused. He wasn't normally a sleep talker, had he indulged while in this crazy place of smell? He tried clearing his throat.

"You had a tube down your throat for a while to help you breath, but it was taken away about two days after you were shot," the man said quietly.

"Ah ha!" Will said. Or at least, Will tried to say. It came out more of a shaggy breath with enthusiasm behind it somewhere. The words in his head kept coming, though, and he continued speaking them in his head. He knew he'd been shot. Hadn't he just come to that conclusion? Okay, at first he thought it'd been tonsillitis, but, hey, that was over and he was sure now that he'd been shot.

"I assume you are asking who I am?" the man continued. Will stopped in the middle of his thought-speech and looked at the man through still-focusing eyes. He was tall, but not overly so, with a dark mop of curly hair that seemed out of place on his balding head. He was of average weight and build, with nothing about him to suggest anything out of the ordinary. He could have been from about thirty years of age to about sixty, depending on how well he had taken care of himself. "I am an agent with the Central Intelligence Agency."

Uh oh. How did Will know that this man was telling the truth? For all he knew, he could be in Russia or Peru. Did the Peruvians participate in this sort of thing? The only thing Will could remember about Peruvians was a good friend he'd had in middle school, a girl named Renata who was a Peruvian born in France living in America since the age of one. The girl was tall, thin, exotic looking, and beautiful. He wondered what had happened to her. Was she like Sydney? An agent? Like this man claimed to be.

"You may call me Agent Johns," he continued. How long had Will's thought-train taken? "Or merely just Johns if you wish. I have no preference, but some of your superiors will appreciate it if you address them and others in their company who outrank you appropriately."

"Real?" Will managed to caw out. What he meant was, How can I be certain that you aren't out to trick me? How do I know that you aren't actually the enemy of my government? Why don't you convince me it isn't my government who is my enemy? Who do you work for? What use am I to you?

Johns strode forward in his unnoticeable blue suit and reached in his front pocket and withdrew a plain black wallet. Opening it up, he flipped through some cards before withdrawing one and showing it to Will. He didn't glance at it. It could easily be faked. Nice to know that they cared enough to try to deceive him, though. Made him feel appreciated. Not many strangers nowadays that would go out of their way to make you believe something. Wasn't there a word for that, really? Chicanery.

"Good enough for you?" Johns inquired of Will after a few moments, thrusting his card back into his wallet and shoving the wallet out of sight. Ah, so the man was impatient. Will could use that to his advantage, he was pretty sure. If he had been functioning at one hundred percent, he would have already started planning ways to annoy the man without getting killed. However, with half of his brain still under the numb from pain category, he decided that he'd have to wait on that.

"No," Will said. Johns laughed. And laughed. Would he ever stop laughing? If he didn't, would he float up onto the ceiling like that man from Mary Poppins? What was his name? Uncle Albert? Earnest? Would he need to hiccough, like Charlie and Grandpa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, just to get down? Or would the sad trick to it? Would he start crying so desperately from his sadness that he would wash away the path of his life, like in Alice in Wonderland? Or would he just merely stop?

Johns stopped laughing. Will smiled. His last guesses were always the best. "I like you, Tippin," the agent said. "That's why, when we were trying to figure out what to do with you, we didn't decide on witness protection." Johns let his fingers drop to the metal railings of Will's bed and trace the swirling patterns in the metal absently. "I said, Tippin's a bright kid. With a little training, I said, he could amount to something."

What did this man, claiming to be an agent, mean? Will got the general feeling from the man that he was asking to be trusted. In his head because he didn't trust his body Will gave a mirthless laugh. Trust him? A total stranger? Impossible. Will lost the ability to trust anyone except himself when he saw Sydney beat the crap out of the men who were torturing him.

_Is she a part of this?_ He remembered asking that. Maybe it wasn't in those exact words, but that's what he'd asked. And what had Jack Bristow said? He had given Will the assurance that his daughter was not in the intelligence business. Jack had lied. _No._ You can't trust anybody.

Johns was talking. Had he missed something? Will didn't think so. "So, kid, you're in. Soon as you're good and healed, we're sending you to the offices in LA. We were gonna do DC but then somebody very politely reminded us that sending you to DC would be worse than the Program, because a certain agent would know that her friend was in the CIA. And we don't want her to know."

Ah. There was the kicker. Lie to Sydney. His best friend. Don't tell her that he works for the CIA. Dear God, had he actually said that? Was that what Johns had meant by the entire conversation? That Will was going to be an agent? Like, a spy?

"Do you understand?"

Will nodded. "I think so," he said carefully. "You want me to work for you in the CIA." Johns kept his face carefully blank. Was this a good or a bad sign? Will didn't like this guy. Should he continue? Probably. There was nothing else for him to do. It wasn't like he could prop up on an elbow and play X-Box. "And you don't want me to tell Sydney."

Johns nodded once.

Lie to Sydney and Francie? Become a spy? Betray your best friends by continually putting yourself in danger? The Will Tippin of last year would have been appalled. He would not have been able to fathom a situation where he would even consider the option. He would have turned it down immediately.

"I'll do it," Will said, "but I want full dental."


	3. Spy Toys

**Spoilers**: It's an alternate _Almost Thirty Years_. Everyone _knew _that it was a freakin' tranq, so I figured, "Let's wing him." :bwa ha ha ha has:

**Author's Notes**: Whom to thank? Estella for keeping me in touch with my old friends. I miss you all, even though none of you will ever see this note.

**

* * *

**

**cosset** KOSS-it, transitive verb:  
To treat as a pet; to treat with excessive indulgence; to pamper.  
Cosset comes from the noun cosset, "a pet lamb."

* * *

"Haven't seen you for a while. What's it been, two weeks?"

"Yeah."

"You gotta stop smokin' those things. People are going to think you're an addict. Then where will you be? You'll have throat cancer and you'll be forced to quit and start doing those commercials for the teens. You know the one's I'm talkin' about. The lady with the hole in her neck? The woman who bashes eggs all over her kitchen and screams something about brains on drugs?"

"You didn't mention the X-Files series finale."

"I'm pretending it doesn't exist. I was ashamed."

"You're prattling."

"Jesus, I wonder why? Do you know how hard it is to keep Jack Bristow from barging in and checking all over for Tippin's file? He suspects something. And I'm worried."

"Good thing that Will Tippin doesn't have a file other than the public one, now, isn't it? The computer doesn't have anything on Tippin. I never trust those things."

"What? Computers?"

"Anything written down, whether mechanically or electronically. It has a tendency to get lost. I keep them here."

"Ah, so that's why you have that big missing patch up there. I just thought you were going bald. But, no, apparently you are having your hair removed one strand at a time to make space for the notes you will have tattooed."

"You're about as funny as a fart in a spacesuit."

"Haven't I read that before?"

"I think it's Card."

"Plagiarist."

"I was quoting."

"Whatever. Let's get back to the work on hand. What have you done with Tippin in the two weeks you refused to contact me and arrange a meeting? And, by the way, after thirty years of having you contact me, I think I want you to give me _your _number so you can be contacted, not contactee."

"Bite me."

"I don't swing that way. Go on about Tippin, will ya?"

"Nothing much. He spoke to his family and friends. Gave them the story we drilled into him. It's a beauty. Just plain stupid on his part and he knows it. It was all I could do to keep a straight face when I first told it to him."

"What was this doozie of a story, sir?"

"He opened the door and somebody was standing there to burglarize the place. Some Cambodian woman. She waved a gun at his head and out piled five agents, with their lasers trailed on her. She freaked, fired the gun once, and passed out. Tippin isn't pressing charges."

"That is priceless. Where did you come up with that?"

"It happened about four years ago."

"Damn. Who was it that was in safe house? Quayle?"

"P-O-T-A-T-O-E."

"Hilarious. What about work? What, is he dropping off the face of the Earth there? I thought that was generally frowned upon."

"Just handed in his resignation last week. He didn't want nothing, no money for injury on the job or anything. I would have milked them, but, hey, I just like big figures in my checkbook. He's still young enough that he doesn't care."

"Sucker."

"He did ask for this file, though, and was real specific about it. You'll never believe what the hell this boy had planned. Guess!"

"I don't know. Just tell me, Johns."

"No, guess."

"I give."

"You're no good at this game."

"I never was. You broke me of fun when you took me in."

"Anyway, he had written a story with all he knew about Danny Hecht "

"Isn't that Sydney's fiance? The one that SD-6 offed a while back?"

"Yeah."

"Man, that was classy killing. The blood and the ransacking of the apartment alone was an eight on my scale. Usually I just have them shot and then I take the car and sell it to a chop shop."

"You're unoriginal."

"Continue with your story, then, meanie."

"You don't have to call names."

"Stop pouting, Johns. It doesn't become a higher-ranking officer. And you look like a girl when you pout. Twelve."

"At least I'm not a sulking thirteen-year-old. As I was saying, he had this article all written out. SD-6. Danny. Kate. Eloise. It was like Days of Our Lives with PAX TV names. It was pretty good stuff, too. It had quite a lot of detail. Not all of the facts were straight, but, let me tell you, Sydney Bristow would have been dead by the end of the day it was published."

"When was it going to be published?"

"If Tippin didn't come back and didn't contact them, the paper was gonna publish it. You know, one of those, If I die fighting for the Union, I want you to marry my brother? Only not so civil war and more like I'm going into something I don't know about and I'm scared shitless."

"I didn't think he'd have the brasses to do that."

"Call him Man-In-Pain."

"Or Draggin'-Man."

"I see the pun and I raise you onamonapia. Clink clink ouch ouch."

"Who can compete with that?"

"No one, Fredricks."

"What's happening now?"

"Well, we've given him time off to look for a job. Now he's gonna be hired at the LA Periodical. He works on getting up to level with my agents and gets coffee. Most young agents who know about my division would die for the honor of spitting in my cup every morning."

"God knows I would. That's an okay start; you're cosseting him. What about after that?"

"It all depends if Tippin decides to whiten his teeth or not."

* * *

Johns met with Will Tippin for the first time in fifteen days at a small café near the office buildings of his former place of work. He had been calling Will every day with instructions on as to what he should do and he had been leaving men to watch and interact with Will in his stead. Johns walked up unannounced and handed the young reporter a large manila envelope.

"I just knew I'd be getting a present soon," Will remarked casually from behind his bagel. He swallowed and stood.

"You call me every day to tell me you love me and you have all your friends come over and ask if I want to go out with you. It's very flattering for a gal, let me tell you. I have to say it, though, Johns - I don't think of you that way." He glanced at Johns, grinning, while he went up to pay for his food.

Johns said nothing, merely grunted. After a moment of looking at him, Tippin faltered and opened the package. Johns watched while Tippin self-consciously ruffled through the pages. "Wow," Will said. "There's a work contract in here for some newspaper called the LA Periodical. I think I've read that before. It's got a pretty wide variety of articles, no definite feeling as to what type of paper it is." Tippin glanced at Johns with a dubious look on his face. He was going to work at a second rate paper? It didn't matter he wasn't really working there, just having his name on the payroll was bad enough.

"And this looks like a lot of papers that I'm going to have to sign," Will said. Johns merely grunted, so Will took that to mean that yes, he was going to have to sign them. He wondered if he should read them as well but decided against it. If they were there to screw him over, they had him. He couldn't stop it one way or the other. He was in way too deep. "And this looks like a passport, driver's license, birth certificate, and social security card of a one Mr. Zachary Edwards. Am I Zach Edwards?"

"Yes." The answer was short and obviously meant to be non-committal to the conversation and whatever threads were stemming from it. Johns was clearly impatient to go. Tippin looked at the car in front of the café; it was in the red zone and big and black. It screamed soccer mom so loudly that Will almost put his hands up to his head to cover his ears. He walked over to it and opened the car door, getting in after pausing to see if it was the correct car with a backward glance over his should towards Johns. Johns glared at nothing for a moment before entering on the driver's side.

"Good, because Will Tippin, gee, that's so out, you know?" Will snapped his buckle and watched as John thrust the key into the ignition. The engine gave a sort of feeble protest, as if only to make it formal, and then shuddered to life. Will looked out the window from his vantage point on top of the world in the SUV and grinned at a little Italian sports car that was in front of them. It was so toast.

"Sydney Bristow has Kate Jones," Johns said, maneuvering the giant vehicle in front of another and causing the driver of the truck to swear and give them the finger. Will liked being this kind of passenger and not the type of driver that he usual was - the truck driver.

"Got it. This is my travel icon. My avatar for the three-dimensional world. One more strand to add to the completion of the tangled world of lies that I am constructing." Will absentmindedly let himself chatter on and on. He was a very good chatterer when he got the chance to exercise his skills in the art.

"I hate writers," Johns said. "Always think what they have to say is worth saying. And I hate journalist even more. They always think that they should speak no matter what, because even if they have nothing worthwhile to say, they'll still be speaking. If they are remembered for their words or not has no meaning to them."

Will took the hint.

The office building where Agent Johns parked the sports utility vehicle looked much the same as any of the other buildings on the street on which it was located. It was not very large and definitely not in the best of condition. There was cracked and peeling paint on the wooden door and the windows were rather dirty. A large sign on the door declared it to be the main offices of the LA Periodical. Will frowned as he followed Johns into a brightly lit reception area. There were no shadows and the only cobwebs were near the bottom a plastic tree in the corner behind the door. Not very CIA at all.

The girl at the front desk smiled as they walked up. "Mr. Johns," she said respectfully. She reached under the counter and brought out a small laptop computer. Taking off her necklace, she opened up the locket to remove a small key. She used the key to open the laptop, which turned out to be not a laptop but rather a small safe. Withdrawing several paper bags from the laptop-turn-safe, she closed it, place the key back in the locket, put the chain back on her neck, and put the laptop back under the counter. "There's your lunch," she said.

"Whoa." Will couldn't think of anything else to say. Was this guy paranoid or was John just showing off for him? The girl looked at him expectantly. Oh, yes, he must introduce himself. How silly. He stuck out his hand. "Will," he said.

The girl gripped it in a surprisingly firm grasp. "I know who you are, Mr. Tippin," she said, smiling as she was shaking his hand. "I hear you are the new reporter that our esteemed editor is taking under his wing." Will glanced at Johns and thought personally that Johns looked like the only time he'd take Will under his wing was to put him in a headlock. "Usually he takes only interns. You must be very proud." She dropped his hand and leaned forward over the desk. Of their own accord, Will found his eyes drifting southward to the ample cleavage that was now being presented to him. "I'm Stacey Jacobson," she said. She leaned back and once again shook his hand before dropping it. "I'm sure you'll have a fine time here, Mr. Tippin."

"You don't have to call me Mr. Tippin. Just Will is fine," he said, smiling at her. Stacey merely grinned.

Johns grunted again - did he know how to do anything other than grunt? Was he perhaps some sort of missing link in the evolutionary chain? Wasn't there a gorilla named Koko who they had taught to sign? Hadn't she consequently acquired a vocabulary of over three thousand words? Johns began to dragging Will away from the desk.

"She knew my name," Will said, dazed. "I didn't know her name, but she knew my name." He halfheartedly considered turning around and waving to Stacey, but decided against it.

Johns snorted. "Of course she did, Tippin," he said simply. "Jacobson is the best geneticist and computer expert we have on staff, even if she is only an intern. We were lucky to get her away from her previous post. She created our security file on you. I don't know if you noticed this, but she got you to look in the correct place for the right amount of time so that we could scan your retinas. Also, when you shook her hand you probably didn't notice the latex covering that took your fingerprints. Nor the slight snag on the palm of your hand that got enough skin cells to get a DNA analysis."

Will gasped and did look back at Jacobson. "She took my DNA?" he asked, shocked.

"No," Johns said, "but that sounded good. We'll take the DNA from you later on. Right now, Jake is probably entering your voice registration and all the other information into the computer as we speak she didn't even need to prod you to say your first and last names. Hurry up, Tippin."

Will obligingly turned up the speed of his gait. They were headed for a door with a single word on it saying 'Stairs.' Will glanced longingly at the elevators. Johns noticed his glance and chortled. "Ever hear of a drawer having a false back? Well, this office has a floor with a false back; a false floor. Only way to get to floor 14B is by stair."

Johns was walking swiftly up the steps and Will was trying valiantly to keep up with him, hoping his breathing wouldn't become too irregular. He almost forgot to ask the next question, so busy was he trying to keep oxygen in his lungs.

"14B?"

"All of our interns work on 14B. It is not connected in any way to 14A: there is a solid wall dividing them down the middle. It is approximately one fourth the size of the total floor. Those who are working inside the operation but who haven't received full agent status are located here." Johns stopped on floor four and watched disapprovingly as Will half-jogged up towards him.

"What does that mean?" Will asked. Johns's eyes narrowed before he turned and began walking up flight five.

"Do you always ask so many questions?" Johns inquired. Will furrowed his brow and closed his mouth, effectively stopping the questions that began to form in his mind. Do you always answer a question with a question? he wanted to ask. Johns sighed heavily, the sigh of an impatiently patient person. "Everyone here is an agent in the CIA. When they come here, they have to re-earn that status, mostly through writing for the paper. We're propagandists for the government here, and that is much more difficult than it looks."

Will gaped at him. "Explain." Oh, thank the good lord up in heaven. The seventh floor; they were halfway done. Will was going to have to begin jogging, or else he'd never make it a week in this place.

"Bossy Bessie," Johns said. "This paper is run and written by government workers. It goes against our constitutional rights and all that stuff, so weren't officially seen as part of the government." Wow, Will thought. "But that's not our real job."

Wait a second here? What had Agent Johns just said? "So, uh, officially you are an unofficial government operation?" Will said. Johns grunted. Ah, back to monosyllabic Johns now, weren't they? "But that's just a big cover-up for something else. You make it sound like something Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson would have on the cartoon show."

"We both know you're waiting for the Olson twins to turn eighteen," Johns muttered, passing the sign that declared it to be the eleventh floor.

Will decided to ignore this. "What are we covering up?" He grinned when he said this. _They_ were covering up something. They as in the CIA. This was the place where men were made and dreams were realized. This was so cool!

"_We _aren't covering up anything. The agents are covering up something. Interns don't know this, usually, so just remember that I'm giving you this information so you know if you'll ever want to leave, you'll be living like Napoleon. Wet island with no technology and people watching you for the rest of your life. Probably be assassinated too, just to make sure everything goes as follows."

"I thought Napoleon died from something in the paint on his bedroom walls," Will said, frowning in the general direction of the agent, not being able to lift his head from where he was watching his feet rise and fall, rise and fall.

Johns didn't answer, even with a grunt. He merely touched the doorknob of the door at the landing. Wrenching it open, he stepped into the room, motioning minutely for Will to follow him inside.

There were two men standing in an almost empty landing. There was a Pepsi machine between them and they appeared to be lounging during break. When they saw Johns and Will, they straightened up, their hands cocked at their sides in an odd fashion. That's the way that gunmen keep their hands, Will realized. They nodded once at Johns and then turned to Will. "Name?" they asked. He gave them his name and waited expectantly while the men stared at him. Was it his imagination, or did he hear a crinkling? Were these men wearing ear pieces?

"Agent Francis Johns and Junior Special Intern William Tippin are on the admittance list," the larger of the two men. Will began gravitating towards the door on the left, but Johns placed a hand on his arm. The second man, the smaller one, took out several quarters and put them in the machine. Clink. Clink. Clink. Three quarters. He placed the remaining four back in his pocket. He then pressed the Pepsi button once, twice; the orange soda button three times; and the Mt. Dew button once. Taking a firm grasp of the machine, they then slid it easily to the right.

"Walk this way," Johns said, striding purposely into the room revealed by the door. Will could say nothing, just nodded mutely, and thought to himself, Holy crap.

Johns walked quickly, with purpose, through the room. The people near the front stood respectfully as Johns passed, sitting only when he was beyond them. It gave Will the creeps. What sort of place was this? As they got further into the room, however, fewer and fewer people stood, until they passed through a door into a large hallway. People standing at their doors or working with them open barely glanced up as Johns and Will progressed.

"This place has a major security hazard," Johns said as they were walking. "For the main offices for the interns there is only one exit that they can assess without help in case of an accident. While that also means that there is only one way to enter these halls, it does tend to cause people to panic during earthquakes."

Will said nothing, just stared goggle-eyed all around him. He noticed two men, boy, really, that's how young they were, speaking animatedly in the doorway of one of the offices. One was in a maroon shirt and one in olive green. Johns continued talking about security in the place.

The one in the maroon shirt glared the olive-green shirt and said, "No, Spiderman is better than Batman. He can swing off of buildings." Will paused, completely ignoring Agent Johns and his talking by now and focusing on the conversation.

Olive-green glared directly. "So can Batman." One for each side and neither showing any signs of backing down. This was going to get interesting. Will glanced back at Maroon and waited expectantly.

He didn't have to wait long. "Spidey sense." My spidey sense is tingling, Will thought. The first week of his sophomore year at college, his roommate had murmured that in his sleep and creeped Will out. He was convinced he had a psycho who thought he could jump off tall buildings and live.

"Batmobile."

"Does the Batmobile tingle?"

"I'm sure there's a button for it." Will had to give him credit, that was a surprisingly thought-provoking response. After all, Bruce Wayne is a very busy man. On the other hand, though, he had no end of babes throwing himself at him.

"What about you?" Maroon rounded in on Will and he backed up quickly into a wall. Damn. That had materialized out of no where. Should he perhaps find whatever wizard was working the magic in this place and complain? He glanced around helplessly for Johns, but he was standing several paces away with a neutral expression on his face. This guy had one expression! "Spiderman or Batman?"

"Superman," Will said, licking his lips. Olive-green and Maroon stared at him with deathly rays of hate that was twinned in their eyes. Will gulped and wondered briefly if these men were agents and if so, would they be killing him now? "See," he explained, "he's the only one who wears the tights and no mask."

Olive-green and Maroon looked at each other, mouths open. Were these two brothers? Will wondered how quickly they would take his body apart. Never get in the middle of a fight of grown men and comic book heroes.

"Good one," Olive-green said. Will let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to die today! Oh, thank the Lord! He was going to call his mother as soon as possible and tell her how much he loved her!

"Never thought of it that way," Maroon conceded. He shrugged his shoulders and started speaking more, but he was interrupted by Johns.

"Tippin, come on. You don't want to be late, now, do you?" Maroon and Olive-green turned to look and Johns and gasped. Obviously they knew him. Probably as some hard-ass who never let them work in peace, Will thought to himself. "Wilkinson, Godat, get back to work." Interesting. Godat wasn't said the French way, Go-day, but rather the poor white American trash way, Go-dat. Will liked whichever one was Godat that much better.

Godat and Wilkinson both backed up several paces from Tippin and eyed him once over before disappearing down a hallway. Will had the sudden idea that he was the adopted project of the local freak in the CIA. Great. Why didn't he begin packing his resume immediately?

"Now," Johns said as they resumed walking, "usually we have you tested for a year to see if you're good enough for the training of a normal CIA agent. Then we promote you to intern. After another year of low intel work, we give you a chance to prove yourself as an agent. Then you have to prove yourself in the field and or as a jockey. Unfortunately, you're an idiot." He gave a helpless shrug and Will murmured a quick apology. Johns waved it off nonchalantly. "So, we're skipping you several grades."

"Cool," Will said. They walked into a darkened corridor. There were no windows and there weren't any doors that he could see, except for one at the very end. Interesting. They would be going through that door to change his life.

"Not cool," Johns said, managing to make the word cool seem juvenile and completely unprofessional. Will glowered. Cool was a good word. Expressive. He'd not stop using it for some stupid job as a spy! Wait. Yes he would. "Think of it this way: It would be like if you were a three-year-old and we put you in with the sixth graders. Academics and physical education."

"But a third grader wouldn't be able to keep up with a sixth grader," Will pointed out. "I don't think a three-year-old has much of a chance." They were half-way down the hall and Will kept glancing at the door and grinning at it.

"Exactly, moron," John said, stopping in the middle of the hall and turning ninety-eight degrees. "You are so in over your head. You drowned days ago, you just aren't aware of it yet." He placed a hand on the door handle and turned. A small closet was shown. Johns reached over and brushed aside a coat, revealing a black box with a hinged top about eye level.

He flipped it open and stared at it; there were two plates, one on top of the other, there. Will was shocked when a thin red line ran across John's face. After a two minute pause, Johns spoke his name. "Frank Johns." Will watched, fascinated, when Johns placed his hand below the thin, clear plate that had scanned his eyes and. Will shivered to see it turn briefly red.

Johns stepped back and turned to Will. "Your turn." Repeating the process and feeling rather stupid, Will was surprised to feel how cold the plate got when he placed his hand on it. When he was finished, Johns placed the back where it belonged and walked out of the closet. Will barely made it out before Johns had shut the door once more.

Walking together quickly down the halls, Will couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive about the ever-closer door looming up. When they reached it, he closed his eyes for half a second, and then opened them sharply. He must not appear frightened.

Johns paid no attention the younger man, his nondescript form never turning in the slightest to Will. Once the door was opened fully, he stepped into the room and spoke.

"Ling, I have the new jessie." He jerked a finger towards Will and a woman stepped forward. "Junior Special Intern Tippin, meet Agent Ling Chau. Ling, meet Jessie Tippin." Will stuck his hand out hurriedly, to shake Ling's. She stared at him and he withdrew it after a few moments.

Ling was small, just almost coming up to Will's shoulder, but sturdily built. Her eyes brightly brown, her dark hair curly, her fingers formidably long, Will was struck by how she looked so Chinese and yet had the oddest features: she was half Caucasian if she was any.

"I love your hair," Will said, trying to fill the awkward silence that had descended up on the group. Strike that; no one except Will seemed to be uncomfortable. Ling was still staring at him with her large eyes and Johns was watching the two of them with an amused smile on his face. Was this the first time Will had seen him smile? He couldn't remember.

"I'm not," Ling said.

"Wh-what?" Will faltered. She wasn't what?

"I'm full blooded Chinese. I just look damn good for it," Ling said. Will saw Johns's eye twitch before Johns turned his head slightly. Ling faced Johns, completely ignoring Will's apologies. "I thought you were bringing me a jessie. A J.S.I. This is not a jessie. This is a pansy."

"What?" Will broke in, shocked. Did Ling just say that he was gay? He wasn't gay. He was very not-gay. In fact, he was checking out her ass right now. Look, that was him, checking out Ling's ass. He'd seen a nicer one on Francie (when she was dieting it off, even), but, still, he was checking it out. Not gay.

"Don't worry, Ling, he's got a thing for little girls, not boys. He isn't gay." Johns looked at his fingernails and scratched the surface us his right ring finger with the thumb of the same hand. Will stuttered a question out, which Johns waved away. "This is the one that was dating that kid, Jenny, remember?"

"Ah, I remember him," Ling said, her face void of emotion and her eyes so definitely not twinkling that Will frowned and began contemplating way to prove he wasn't perverted or gay. "I say he was playing it for a sham; in denial. I could beat the crap out of him right now."

As if to prove the point, Will was suddenly on his back with Ling on his chest, all five foot-one and one hundred twenty pounds of muscle of her. Her hands around his neck made breathing difficult to breath. Oh, dear Lord, it wouldn't be geeks who would kill him; it would be this tiny woman with the feral glint in her eyes. He began to see stars right before Ling let go and scrambled up. Rubbing his neck, he followed suit. "I'm going to have a bruise," he said in a raspy voice. When he finished speaking, somebody melted in from the shadows of the room handed him a bag. Opening it, Will discovered . . . Cover Girl foundation in it? "Oh, no way." Will said.

"You're gonna need it. If that is any way to gauge how your training will go, you are going to be more black and blue than pink and brown," Ling said. She turned away from Will and walked to the end of the room, which, Will noticed for the first time, was completely empty. "Are you three coming down stairs with me or shall I go all by myself?" she asked. Will's heart sank. Down those stairs again?

Perhaps it wouldn't do to be too optimistic, but when Will saw the elevator he grinned. Now, that was more like it. He'd talk to Johns about this make-up thing later. No way was Will Tippin, Junior Agent Special or . . . no, wait . . . jessie . . . Junior Special Agent. Yes, he was a Junior Special Agent and he was not going to be wearing any make-up.

"Johns," Will said, catching his arm inside the elevator, "what's a Junior Special Agent?"

Johns smirked, but it was Ling who spoke. "Gophers."

End Chapter Two

Hey, dudes, I totally based Ling on my dear friend Estella. Estella is full blooded Chinese (her parents ARE from China!) but she is TALL (Ling isn't) and built very sturdily (yet she's thin, you know), and has the CURLIEST hair I've ever seen. I'm so jealous of it. So there! I'll find a picture of her. She's so beautiful. And sorry this is coming out late my family and I've been crazy lately.

(Additional author's note, added three years later this story got Estella hooked on Alias, and now she's the biggest Alias fan:-D)


	4. Cover Girl Stock

**blem·ish**_ (noun)_

An imperfection that mars or impairs; a flaw or defect.

(Middle English blemisshen, from Old French blesmir, blemir, blemiss-, _to make pale_, of Germanic origin

* * *

"So, the verdict?"

"It's too soon to tell."

"What do you mean? You've had the jes for three months! Three months, I might add, in which I could not get to you because I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOUR OFFICE IS!"

"I have assistants. You could have asked Ling if it was really important."

"Sir, you must have even a preliminary opinion as to how the rest of his training will go. Hell, the first week we met you informed met hat someday I'd be a top agent under you. And you can't give me your opinion on Tippin?"

"He's doing better than we anticipated."

"How much better?"

"A lot. All earlier estimates are void. It's like all he wants to do right now is learn everything he can so ... he can show up the second agent Bristow, even though she'll never know he's in the CIA. Hell, Tippin doesn't even know he's in the division that monitors the Bristows and those like them."

"What exactly are you saying? I though he was a sarcastic hardass on the outside and a gummy bear on the inside. Strawberry flavor and all that rot. Now you're telling me that he's Señor Super Intern Tippin? Sir, give me a break, with all respect."

"No, I'm not telling you he's lost his sarcasm. We all keep that in this business. We have classes for the slow learners."

"As I recall, I excelled."

"I just get this feeling that Tippin is pushing himself too hard. Before before, I wouldn't have even considered him as a field agent."

"Don't go there, sir."

"Fredericks, in all honesty, I think that Tippin wants to be trained as more than a jockey. He wants out there, to be in the heat of it all. I think that he could become a good one too."

"He's not gone through any of the courses that our normal agents have! Tippin has had almost no training in any other language than his own his IQ barely scraps genius! He's a chewable gelatin animal for God's sake! You're saying that you think he could be a double agent?"

"Maybe within the United States on lesser jobs yes. If he had an adequate handler."

"Oh, no."

"Come on. I hear that Bristow is getting pretty damn cozy with Vaughn."

"Bastard's taking all my glory. And Bristow seems to think that he doesn't need a handler so much anymore as he needs to be in charge of every frelling thing. It's as if he expects us to forget that he _knowingly betrayed his country!_"

"You still don't like him for that, do you?"

"I like the guy plenty. He's my agent. I have a certain fondness for my cases. Hell, I even enjoy his company when he isn't being Mr. Secret Spy, which, let me tell you, is pretty damn rare. What I do is resent the fact that he has climbed as high as he has after his past."

"The second agent Bristow betrayed her country too, you know."

"She didn't know! It was unwitting. She came to the CIA after she found out. Bristow started it all, sir. Johns, he started it. Maybe I do need someone untarnished."

"So you think that Tippin would be a good replacement for Bristow?"

"Hell, Johns, I'm getting old. Maybe Tippin would be a good slowing of pace."

"I'm not so sure the boy wants to go slow, Fredericks."

"In his defense, sir, I'm sure he's going plenty fast for him. But I'm used to watching the Bristows both of them! and Tippin will be a walk in the park after the shenanigans that duo has pulled. Talk about your father-daughter activities."

"Fredericks, one more thing before we leave."

"Going so soon? I was just getting comfy in my chair. I always knew you had buns of steel. There's no way you can mold these chairs that fast and then leave. Unless you have your own cushion. Do you have your own cushion?"

"Idle chitchat gets you naught."

"I never understood that. It doesn't even rhyme."

"I just made it up, you dip."

"There was something you wanted to tell met?"

"I think you'd be good for him. He needs you."

"I won't be his friend."

"He's got plenty of friends. He needs somebody to trust."

* * *

Junior special interns got the bad end of somebody's fist more than a few times a day, Will reflected as he rubbed with care some liquid foundation into the tiny bruise above his eye. It was less of a hitting situation than many people practicing their pantak jabs on him. He flinched as he circled with a little too much vigor the bruise.

Will frowned at himself in the mirror before carefully replacing the lid and tossing the foundation underneath his sink, in a basket full of other make-up supplies. He grinned ruefully at himself.

"Thought you'd never wear all that girly-stuff," he cawed to his reflection. The reflection didn't respond. "But now you're off to work covered in more powders and pastes than you've ever seen in your entire life."

He combed his hair up, disheveling it for the best affect on Ms. Stacey Jacobson (who had loudly declared in a room full of lower level officers, or lloyds, that she liked his hair like that), inwardly pondering the wisdom of a highlighting. Once he was thoroughly convinced that he was tatty-headed, he straightened his jacket blue, like his eyes, and didn't he know it and headed out of the bathroom.

On the way past the hall mirror he noticed something that he hadn't previously. There, on the other side of his face, away from the bruise, was a humongous pimple. It was like a case of Acne Gone Bad, complete with a white top and red edging. Will gasped.

There were several things he could do. He could try to pop it. However, pimples had a tendency to bleed and get red and irritated and stay longer if Will tried to squeeze them. He nixed that idea. His second option was covering it up with more foundation. Will thought, though, that maybe it needed to breath. Did pimples breath? They needed oxygen, didn't they? Weren't there pads called OxyClean?

So Will took the third option, ignore it, and hoped that nobody looked real close at the hairline above his ear.

The drive to the newspaper building where he worked was no more interesting than ever. Once, in a fit of paranoia, Will thought he saw a car following him. Very carefully, he took a left turn, then a right, then went into a drug store parking lot. Nobody was behind him, and he grinned at himself.

Once at work, Will made it up to the thirteenth floor in the elevator and climbed the last flight by himself, a smirk on his face. It had taken in three weeks to realize that he didn't need to climb all fourteen flights of stairs to the Pepsi machines.

Knopf and Roger Modarressi, both of whom were constantly at their posts on either side of the machine during the day shift, nodded at Will while he gave his almost robotic recitation of his name. Modarressi asked Will about his sister's kids.

"Doin' okay," Will replied. The men moved the machine over. "'Bye, Modarressi. 'Bye Knopf."

Wilkinson and Godat spotted Will at once and came scurrying over, casting furtive glances over their shoulders. Will recognized what the two young lloyds wanted with him, and slowed his pace so that the three of them would intercept.

"Do you have it?" Will queried in a stage whisper.

"Do I have it?" Godat asked with incredulousness. "Does the internet spread falls rumors? Of course I have it, Will!"

"Phil," Wilkinson warned.

"I'm just askin'," Godat cried, "if young Will thought I was crazy. Mentally unstable. Insane. Loco! No estoy loco, Will! No estoy loco!"

"Dude," Will commented. "Phil."

"You on crack or somethin'?" came from an amused Wilkinson. "Just show him already."

"Right," Godat drawled. "Doug's right. Okay, so, here it is." This last part was spoken with a great flourish. Out Godat whipped his suitcase and from hence withdrew the gold of the conversation.

"Wow," breathed Will. "That is one nice edition of the Incredible Hulk."

"Oh yeah, baby, and it could be yours for the low, low price of " Godat was interrupted by a bright female voice.

"All right, lloyds, I got your fit reps, so if you want 'em come and get 'em!"

Will whirled around to face the speaker, the lovely young Ms. Stacey Jacobson, on whom Will was not ashamed to admit a small, half-jesting, and completely harmless crush on. It didn't hurt his reputation that Stacey, herself a jessie, like Will enough to not snub his company. The lloyds working on the paper would gaze with jealousy when she didn't single him out in a group to tease him in her wicked humor.

Jacobson gave a conspirative winked at Will while addressing the lloyds gathered around her as she dispersed their fitness reports. Hands pushing forward, they looked like beggars around a socialite handing out trinkets. Will waved to her (she waved back! she waved back! Will decided his day was definitely starting good the lloyds gave him murderous looks) and continued on to the back hallway.

"I'll see you for drinks later?" Jacobson hollered.

"Yeah," Will called, and grinned. No need for the lloyds to know that he was going to be playing pool with Jacobson's boyfriend, now, was there?

After going through the closet security system and entering the common room, which would lead him to the almost inaccessible (for a jessie) underground offices of where ever in the hell he worked, Will waited by the elevators for Ling, who was his morning appointment, to work on his physical tests.

"You're on time, Jes," bellowed Ling as she turned the corner from where she had been. Will wasn't allowed beyond certain points in the building. Once he had tried to follow Ling around the corner and she had not very kindly shown him the underside of her boot. (This encounter, however, was not without its benefits: when it seemed likely to storm, Will's elbow now ached slightly.)

"Yes, ma'am," Will mumbled. He had found out long ago that this tiny Asian woman with the huge eyes was best dealt with in short sentences and absolutely no staring. Ling had accused him of profiling her as one of his as she put it child pornography fantasies. Will ascertained that it was a better idea just to watch her with a blank expression and little to no conversation.

Of course, Ling was not always bite and bark both. Many times he found that she really was trying to help him become a better intern, and, in turn, a good agent. She oftentimes spoke with harshness towards him well, most of the time but sometimes she stayed late after she'd already been with him all day and helped him practice his moves over and over until he got it.

"I think we're finally drilling some sense into you. Johns will be pleased. I hear he was just about to give up on your altogether. We just had a meeting about you an hour ago, Jes. Do you want to know what it was about?"

"Sure," answered he in a solid tone.

Ling began by taking a deep breath. This, Will assumed, was for the better to holler with. "You have consistent results in physical tests you overstrain yourself. Do you understand what that means? It means that it is almost as bad if not worse than if you had not tried hard enough or if you were not able to meet enough of the physical requirements! We do not need a tired intern on our hands who collapses at the first sign of trouble! I have given this lecture to you four times already "

"Three," Will couldn't help but interject.

Ling rolled her eyes. "It's called tough love, Tippin. I've done nothing that'd hurt you dangerously, and you're becoming a better fighter for it. You wanna know why you were put with me, Jes? A very junior special intern? Because I'm the best. The only way you'd ever learn was from the best."

"Is the best called for beatin' me all the time?" inquired Will, a little at his end's rope.

Ling grinned. "Get better."

Will laughed; he couldn't help it. "I should buy stock in Cover Girl."

"Today, Jes," Ling informed him, her tone changed, "you will be meeting your handler."

Will knew enough about where he was to be more than a little surprised.

"I thought I was going to be a handler," he told Ling. Then he corrected himself. "I thought I was going to work as an intern to a handler so that I could figure out as to whether or not I'd make a good one. Or I was, ya know, gonna stick to research. I'm good at research."

Ling sucked on her teeth, a habit of hers Will noticed when she was about to tell him something she wasn't supposed to.

"We're thinkin' on tryin' you as a field agent. But that's all under the d, so keep your mouth screwed tight." Ling paused, then smirked at him. "I don't wanna know if your mouth screws, okay, just, keep it to little girls."

"Hey!" Will protested, half-heartedly.

Ling looked at him with raised brows ... then looked again.

"Good God, what the hell is _that_?" she screeched.

"It's a pimple," Will cried, covering his cheekbone with his hand.

"Jesus, Jes! You wash the foundation off at night and you don't get those huge things. You could fit half the building onto that thing. Remind me not to look at you again!"

"My pleasure," muttered Will.

"Come with me," Ling sighed.

Ling turned and began striding straight towards the corner. Will lingered a little, unsure if she really meant for him to follow her around the edge. She had, after all, made him an instrument of weather forecast the last time he wanted to turn the corner. Ling came to an abrupt halt and, without looking at him, motioned for Will to walk.

Ling could speak and stroll at the same time, and demonstrated her amazing ability for Will as he made his second traipse into the inner common room.

"No matter how pretty you think Agent Fredericks is, stay away. He's happily married to a huge woman, and if she thought some perv was layin' puppy dog eyes all over her man she'd drop kick you to hell and back. Got it clear, Jes? We're givin' you more than tech-hood, be proud."

As it turned out, Will was rather frightened of his handler. Fredericks was a tall black man. He wasn't just a tall person either, he was a man of immense proportions. A man with whom Will was certain he could never, in his wildest, most crazy, and insane dreams, win a fight with. Will reckoned that he would be out cold by the end of the handshake.

"Tippin," was said by Fredericks. His voice had a strangely flat texture, almost like Johns', but not quite. It was, for one thing, quite a bit bigger than Johns' voice. Johns was a medium-sized man. Fredericks was a giant!

"Sir," squeaked Will.

"Let's get started, shall we? We're going to be changing your training, going to make it much more intense. You will have to meet with Ling here more often than you currently are " (Will gaped at him like a fish; he was already seeing Ling far too much for his liking he was beginning to suspect that this was some elaborate joke that Ling had cooked up, perhaps with the help of Jacobson) "and you're going to have to delve much more heavily into your accumulative studies."

"Uh," articulated Will.

"Good, I'm glad you agree," Fredericks declared. "You'll be training with a team that has been handpicked for this. You're going need to be ready in about a month to be placed in the home of an affluent family as a tutor for their three young children. You'll get more information later, I probably imagine. I should keep what you know now to a minimum. It's more exciting your first time if you get all the information at once. It overwhelms you and makes you feel like you're going to puke."

"Yeah," agreed the J.S.I. wholeheartedly.

"Then follow me," and Fredericks lead Will not to what he had assumed would be a reception area but another set of elevators altogether! So this was what the jessies were missing out on? Another pair of doors that opened into a small room? Will would have rolled his eyes, but he was all too aware of the agent Ling watching him.

When Will had exited the elevator that the jessies all used he had done so into a small, busy room, the first of several that would be filled with young men and women, none more than about ten years his senior, working on computers, sitting at tables with papers spread all about them, or eating hastily and trying to not spill on whatever report they were working on.

It should have occurred to him that older men and women didn't just disappear.

The room he entered was about three times the size of the other. Will was also pretty sure that the elevator had gone down lower, so he guessed that this entire structure was under the underground offices. Would that make them sub-underground offices?

Being a junior special intern oftentimes made Will's head hurt.

Will was lead (he always seemed to be following someone, like it was a giant game of follow the leader) through two rooms, three security systems (a piece of cake once Will watched the others give their information), and down a corridor, which in itself was unusual, before the entourage collected in a medium size room with twelve good-looking computers, a overhead view screen, and five other people.

"This is the team you'll be working with," Ling monotoned in an able mimic of Fredericks. The mocking did not go unnoticed, Will observed, and Ling was actually pinched by the agent. Ling went back to her normal voice. "Say hello to Agents Austin Ferman, Jonah Wentworth, Stephen Dollahite, James Joseph Ben, and Stan the Man, who don't need no other name, ya here?"

Will found himself shaking several hands at once, with names being thrown at him. It seemed that Agent Ben liked Jim Joe at least, he thought it was Agent Ben and Wentworth muttered Jones and Dollahite, a tiny little man, boomed in a huge voice, "Steve."

"Yo, I hear you have some previous time with my good friends, Lloyds Wilkinson and Godat," creeled out either Agent Ferman or Wentworth, Will wasn't sure as to which. Both men were above-average height, had dark eyes, and shady colored hair. Maybe they were clones, Will mused.

Agent Jim Joe Ben was easier to tell, if not for the fact that he was blonde, grinned a lot, had a Brooklyn accent, and kept jabbing his finger at his chest saying, "Jim Joe," over and over, as if Will was some sort of mentally challenged intern. Will could not for the life of him understand why Agent Ben wanted to be known by not just two but three first names. It was too far beyond him for Will to even try, so he gave up after a few minutes try.

Short little Agent Dollahite with the deep voice had a way of talking over other people that annoyed Will. His hair was long, much longer than Will's own, and he'd had to keep it trimmed a certain length. Will glared at Ling, he smiled merrily at him, and decided that it had been part of a phasing of his and he was _so_ going to kill Ling.

Stan the Man, it seemed, was a woman. More specifically, she was a tall, lean, brunette agent with almost black eyes and a nose that had been broken and never fixed. Her lipstick was dark red and her eyes were bare. This was not a person, Will decided, to mess with.

"I'm Agent Stanley," she breezed. "You're the jessie?"

"Jessie Tippin," Will stuttered. "Will Tippin."

"I've heard a lot about you," Stanley informed him. To Will it did not seem that the things she had heard were good. "I work in equipment, mainly weapons."

"Excuse me?" gasped Will.

"Guns to _shoot _with. Darts to _inject _with. Laser bobbits _target_ the guns and darts and various other things. I make sure the agent, or, uh," and she almost sneered when looking at him, so he turned his head towards the bruise and away from the pimple, "junior special intern is able to fulfill their objectives by keepin' them loaded and ready."

Shoot? Inject? Loaded? Loaded as in stoned? Will had no idea what Stanley was talking about, but he thought maybe she dealt in drugs. He edged away from her.

Oh yeah. Working with this bunch was going to be interesting.


End file.
